Sway With Me

Sway With Me

From the depths of my empty self,
A little verse has now come to tell itself
I wonder, if I can write without impressions,
Without the prudent forcefulness of desires,
For superstar perfection and stardom,
I’ll begin.

Unshaved, and lying in bed, the many days are passing,
And I watch my life slip through my toes, fingers,
I watch the same clockwork cut out,
Tick tock tick tock, toward my six feet under.
A better dream is set to come true,
In a few weeks, I think three or two
And yet, tick tock, tick tock,
I march in nonchalance and broken pride,
To my sweet six feet under.

The older you get, the verses change,
They behold no more color, no more stories,
Of ecstatic voyages into intricately threaded psychedelic splendor.
Now the verses drown deep into reflection,
And hey, I’m not even old yet.
Somehow still, I feel older than the stars.
Answerable to the invisible gods that bring monsoon,
And change winter to spring. I feel answerable,
To excuse myself before their perfect selves,
And ask them for forgiveness,
For the dump in which I’ve laid waste,
The endless possibilities of my mind and body.

A strange sleep has encumbered me,
Has come to remove the light from my eyes,
A sleep that feels like it will be victorious,
Over my final gasp for one last breath.
We change every day, like trees,
That rejuvenate themselves in Spring.
We are not simple people, simple persons,
With simple dreams or simple songs.
We are like trees that die in autumn,
Trees shaped tall, small, twisted, broken,
We are trees that die and fall,
And rise from the soil again.

Who is the real me?
The little child at three, looking up at the stars,
And finding no words to express its glee?
Am I the curious 12-year old,
Misunderstanding his sexuality,
Hoping to bury his head,
In every pair of breasts he sees
Being tough in school,
Trying hard to hide his embarrassment,
Of newly initiated masturbation,
And failed attempts at pornography
Am I the intelligent 18-year old,
Broken in love, and resurrected,
Seeking semblances of permanent sense,
In this strange world torn between spirit and science
Or am I this, this scarred young man,
Twenty- five but old, dancing in balance,
Between awe for women and misplaced misogyny
This young old man, drenched in extreme experience,
Fondling with boredom like with the tits of a whore
Heart racing at every opportune moment,
To rocket his soul into blinding euphoria
Which one am I?

Life races to nowhere, kindling only new feeling,
Breeding confusion, chaos, and candle-light delight,
In its subjects who carve its marvelous reflections
The purpose here is nothing but movement,
And we, confused children beneath the midnight moon,
Wage war against our ends with words and sonatas,
With triumphant symphonies and graduate degrees,
Sparing no second to let the thought of our deaths,
Suppress us into silent melancholies

We are the children of the sky,
Who are born to offend, the nature of all things
And in our diabolic efforts, we kiss the deepest feelings,
And jive and trapeze with the subtlest discoveries,
Cause hey, we’re human.
We weren’t born to sway with the breeze,
We were born to make it sway with us.

Come now, drink this wine,
And sway with me.

artwork – Spacedance (http://jacquesmayou.com/)

Cloudy Lines

Cloudy Lines

Entrenched and aching,

In a mild prison, that is barred by soft breasts,

And visions of a delight that never arrives

If you can look into the darkness,

That I have erected in the midst of my perfection,

You might tumble into rapturous laughter,

Gently urinating on my funny dreams

 

There’s a girl who lives in a cottage,

That stands beside a thin river

She lives alone, she smiles,

She bakes bread, has a dog,

Drinks whisky every night

She spares no mercy to offer her heart to the world of men,

No time,

To lend her ears to the tremors of fear that rule our world

No television, no radio, no internet,

Just her whisky, dog, and bread.

She’s happy, I’ve kissed her, loved her in summer,

Hated her at fall, touched her warm skin in winter

I’ve known her fears, tasted her dreams,

Drank her whisky, stolen her wine.

Her life rolls on toward oblivion,

Like the stars do at dawn.

She spares no thought for tomorrow’s possibilities,

And dies to the whispers of midnight light.

 

Lyrical delight leads us to naught but damnation,

Too much I have kept my hopes in verse

Invested my heart in beauteous tones,

Strung my heart to give life to words.

I have no complaints. Just a broken heart,

And a mind too small to hold and embrace,

Its endless frames of melancholy.

 

Words exist to tell lies.

There is nothing a word can tell,

That is anything but a lie.

Can you see? Look far into your mind,

Can you see?

Without words, our lives are nothing,

And yet everything, and nothing.

Without words, these constructions of color,

Have no place in existence.

Our world is a world of words,

And we, the most gifted of all liars,

We wondrous tellers of verses,

We poets, we dreamers,

We weave the deepest,

And most elusive of all worlds.

 

I feel like my soul empties into the night,

As I give birth to more verse.

You cannot see, no looking into me.

I bleed. A blood that has no taste,

From a spirit that has no breath.

I am the messenger of death,

And I say to you,

“Go now, live. Tomorrow is a tearful thing,

Death is our blessing. Our end, our gift.

Tonight you see only the endless sky,

So, that when death comes,

You might see beyond it.”